


A Necessary Weakness

by MiladyDeWinter (Techno_Queen)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aramis is awesome, BAMF d'Artagnan, Bad things happen to d'Artagnan, Because he practically is a puppy in human form admit it, Childhood Trauma, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Everyone else is left to pick up the pieces, Gen, Hurt d'Artagnan, Metaphorical Puppy d'Artagnan, Not Beta Read, Protective Aramis, Psychological Trauma, Tags May Change, and his head goes a little wonky because of it, d'Artagnan Angst, d'Artagnan Whump, especially Aramis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-05-21 22:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14924297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Techno_Queen/pseuds/MiladyDeWinter
Summary: (Discontinued; rewrite currently in progress)When his parents die, Charles d'Artagnan is left alone.When he's left alone, he falls into the clutches of a madman.When he falls into the clutches of a madman, he is turned into a pitiful shell of his former self, and it is doubtful he will ever be whole again.(Or: d'Artagnan gets traumatized for life courtesy of one demented authoress, and the Inseparables [especially Aramis] are left to pick up the pieces)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this was a terrible decision and you can't convince me otherwise.

He is seven when his mother dies.

 _A lingering disease,_ the doctors say. _Nothing we can do,_ the doctors say. _All you can do is keep her comfortable until the inevitable happens,_ the doctors say.

So he does. He helps his father with the chores and his mother with her medicine and his older sister with her grief and terror. He does what he can to make their shattering lives just a little more bearable. He tries to stay strong for himself and for his family, because if he breaks than he becomes nothing more than a burden, and Charles d’Artagnan of Lupiac is many things but a burden he is not and will never be, especially with his family as frail as it is now. 

He stays strong as his mother slowly fades away, as his father fades with her, as his sister withers into a shadow of her former self. He stays strong as his family gradually breaks apart, hairline fractures spreading out from the shriveling form of his mother, reaching out to try and destroy those close to her. He stays strong as his mother breathes her last, as the light dims in her eyes, as she finally ceases the fight she’s already lost long ago.

At the funeral, he watches them lower the makeshift coffin into the makeshift grave, watches them shovel dirt into the hole like moles, watches them place the frail wooden cross that is all his family can afford in terms of grave marker, and all he can think is, _this isn’t fair._

It is only after the funeral is over that he cries.

~=~

His father is dead long before his last breath leaves his body.

They all suffer when Lucia dies. Charles misses her warm arms that used to hug him close, her bright, merry gray eyes, her musical voice that used to call him _piccolo lupo_ and laugh at him when he did something silly. He even misses her fondly exasperated voice when he did something dangerous, her scolding tones that used to admonish him when his own recklessness got him into trouble.

But Charles moves on. Brigitte, his older sister, does too.

Alexandre does not.

The man died in spirit the same day that his wife died in body. Losing her broke the man, wearing him down to shreds, stamping out his Gascon fire until he’s barely recognizable. Before long, he’s no more than an empty shell, a fractured man that breathes without living. He continues with his work, maintains the farm and takes care of his children, but the living, strong, kind man Charles used to know is gone forever.

A part of him hates his father for that, hates that he allowed himself to fall apart when he still has a family to take care of. 

The rest of him just feels empty.

~=~

He is twelve when Brigitte falls in love with a man.

They court. They kiss. They get engaged. They marry. They leave, and Charles is left alone at home with his father’s shell, and he feels vaguely betrayed.

He doesn’t like romance, he decides.

~=~

He is thirteen when his father shoots himself in the head.

Charles finds him at his desk one morning, slumped over it, the hole in his head dripping blood all over the worn wood. The pistol, smelling of freshly-discharged gunpower, is still held loosely in one wizened hand, the index finger clamped firmly around the trigger.

It causes a small scandal in the tiny village of Lupiac. In a town where everyone knows everyone else, word soon spreads about Alexandre’s suicide. Charles becomes the subject of all their gossip, no one passing up the opportunity to prattle about _that poor little boy, left alone, his mother died when he was a child, you know, and his sister’s gone off and married a man, and now that his father’s dead he has no one._

_Poor child. Poor, poor child._

_He’s all alone, now._

(Except he’s actually been alone for years already, but none of them realize that)

~=~

His father’s funeral is similar to his mother’s. Still with a wooden coffin, still with the people shoveling dirt like moles, still with a shabby wooden cross laid next to his mother’s own.

He doesn’t mourn him, because he already has. His father has been dead for years. The funeral is only a formality.

After the funeral comes the question of who will take care of him. He doesn’t know where his sister is or how to get there, and he doesn’t know of any other family members that could help him. His mother has a brother back in Italy, one Andrea Cavallo, but Charles doesn’t even know in which city or town the man lives.

Just when he thinks that he will have to be reduced to a beggar, a man offers to help him.

His name is Marcel, he says. He is Alexandre’s long-estranged half-brother, he says. He is sorry for Charles’ loss, and would Charles like to stay with him for a while?

Charles naively says yes.

~=~

Marcel is an...interesting man. 

He’s nice enough during the first few weeks. His house is comfortable and spacious, his garden is flourishing, and he has horses. He even offers to teach Charles how to fight and how to ride, skills that his father-- _Alexandre,_ he hasn't been his _father_ since the man lost himself to grief--never bothered to teach him after Lucia’s death.

The longer that Charles stays, though, the more unnerved he becomes. Marcel is friendly, but he’s strange. He keeps watching Charles out of the corner of his eye, as if sizing him up, and sometimes he mutters to himself. It’s somewhat unsettling.

Charles ignores it, though.

(Later, he’ll wish he didn’t)

~=~

It takes almost a month for the first signs of Marcel’s insanity to finally manifest themselves.

 _Charlie,_ he says (and he knows Charles hates that nickname, but the man never really cared), _Charlie, what are your views on pain?_

 _I don’t know, sir,_ he answers honestly. _I suppose it’s unpleasant, but necessary._

_And why do you think it is necessary?_

_Without pain, we wouldn’t be able to tell if we were injured, sir._

Marcel seems somewhat disappointed. _You speak of physical pain, though. What about emotional?_

At first, he is about to say that the same reasoning applies. But then, he thinks.

He thinks of evenings spent comforting Brigitte as she cried. He thinks of tears flowing down his father’s cheeks. He thinks of the hollowness in Alexandre’s eyes, the betrayal he felt when Brigitte left, the crushing loneliness he felt for so long.

The suffering he and his family endured, all for nothing. 

_I suppose emotional pain isn’t as necessary, sir,_ he at last says carefully.

And Marcel smiles, his grin crooked and twisted like a shark’s. 

~=~

It’s a few more days before they return to the subject.

_Have you ever wondered what it might be like to not feel, Charlie?_

_What do you mean, sir?_

_To not feel emotions, Charlie. To not be hindered by them._

He considers. _Boring, I’d imagine, sir._

Marcel seems surprised. _Why do you say that?_

 _Alexandre always said that one of the only things that made life worth living were feelings, sir,_ he says, wincing slightly at the memory of his father. _He said that a life without feeling was an empty life._

_There is merit in what he says. And yet look where his feelings brought him, Charlie. His own love for your mother turned him into a husk._

_So?_ He can’t help but bristle at the statement, resenting the insult directed at his father-- _Alexandre._

Marcel, for his part, remains calm. _So, wouldn’t you prefer not to fall into the same trap?_

__Meaning?_ _

_Marcel took a sip of his wine. _One day you’ll have a wife and children, Charlie. One day you’ll have a family. What if the same thing happens to you that happened to my dear brother? If someone close to you dies and you lose yourself to your grief, you’ll condemn your loved ones to the fate of watching as you slowly fade away. Is that what you want?__

__...No, sir._ _

__Then wouldn’t it be better to protect yourself against this? If you can’t feel, you can’t be hurt, yes?_ _

__I suppose so…_ _

_Marcel took another sip. _In addition, you won’t have to deal with any further pain. Imagine that, Charlie. You’ll be invincible, untouchable. Nobody would be able to hurt you again. No painful lover’s spats, no bothersome family feuds. Just peace. Doesn't that sound wonderful?__

__...Yes, sir. It does._ _

_~=~_

__You know, physical pain can be quite bothersome too._ _

_It’s a remark that is totally out of the blue, and it takes Charles a while to respond. Eventually he settles on a polite _Really, sir?__

_Marcel nods. _Yes. Physical pain tell you when you’re injured, it’s true, but it also distracts you. It can cloud your mind and prevent rational thinking. Worse, showing pain will alert others to your weakness.__

_Charles considers. _You can’t get rid of pain, though, sir. It will always be there.__

__Maybe you can’t, but you can learn to ignore and hide it. Then it won’t be a weakness anymore._ _

_It sounds appealing, but Charles has his doubts. _Is that really a good idea, sir?__

__Why wouldn’t it be? Weakness, after all, leads to you and your loved ones being hurt. Alexandre’s weakness led to your suffering. Weakness is an evil. To destroy weakness is to ensure safety._ _

__But if it is a good idea, sir, why aren’t more people doing it?_ _

__Because they’re too weak to do so, Charlie. They can’t bear the thought of not whining about every little scratch and bruise. But you’re not weak, are you?_ _

__…_ _

__Are you?_ _

__...No, sir._ _

_~=~_

_A few days after this latest conversation, Marcel goes well and truly mad, not that Charles realizes it._

_For several months, the two go over strategies for suppressing pain, ignoring pain, hiding pain. Over and over again, Charles has it drilled into his head that pain is nothing more than a weakness that can and must be conquered._

__Pain is a weakness. Are you weak, Charlie?v_ _

___No, sir._ _ _

__~=~_ _

__At the tender age of fourteen, Marcel chains him up in the basement, obstinately to “proceed to the next stage of training”._ _

__Somehow, Charles doubts that’s entirely the case._ _

__What follows are the most hellish years of Charles’ life. Every torment that Marcel can possibly conceive is inflicted on him._ _

__When Marcel tires of the knife, he uses the whip. When the whip bores him, he switches to fire. When he’s exhausted fire’s potential, he exchanges it for his own fists. And when even that fails to amuse him, then he forces a bleeding and agonized Charles to endure long hours of training with all sorts of weapons, from knives to pistols to swords._ _

__Complaints are treated with scorn. Begging with derision. Cries of pain with mockery. Threats with laughter._ _

__And over and over again, the madman asks: _Pain is a weakness. Are you weak, Charlie?__ _

__No. No, he isn’t. And he’ll prove it if it kills him._ _

__~=~_ _

__He is nineteen when he finally escapes from the basement._ _

__It’s simple enough to steal some weapons from the armory: a sword, two pistols, and a black-handled dagger decorated with gold. It’s even more simple to steal a horse from the stables._ _

__He steadfastly ignores the pain of his injuries as he gathers his stolen cloak around himself, mounts his horse, and canters away without looking back._ _

__~=~_ _

__He is nineteen, a few days shy of his birthday, as he travels the long road to Paris._ _

__He is nineteen as he is attacked by bandits along the way, and slays them without hesitation, leaving four dead bodies on the road._ _

__He is nineteen as he starts to succumb to fever, and still continues his journey._ _

__He is nineteen as he pushes away the pain of his wounds and the sting of Marcel’s betrayal in favor of putting as much distance as possible between himself and Gascony._ _

__He is nineteen as he does what he can to survive._ _

__~=~_ _

__He is twenty as he finally enters Paris._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know. I just don't know. Why did I write/post this I swear to god.
> 
> The worst part is...I kinda want to continue it. I have a whole storyline in my head where the Inseparables and Constance help put d'Art back together again. I know I should just burn this story and walk away, but...
> 
> Oh god, I think I actually want to continue writing this mess.
> 
> Someone kill me now


	2. Chapter 1

_Seven Months Later_

Aramis opened his eyes with a groan, and instantly regretted it.

Contrary to popular belief, the marksman was no pansy, and was perfectly capable of ‘roughing it’ when needed. He was no stranger to sleeping in forests and fields, riding or walking every day for hours at a time, pushing onwards to complete the mission even when injured. In brief, he was far from being some sort of sensitive weakling, no matter how many people insisted on underestimating him.

However, even a weary soul like him, infinitely patient towards all forms of hardship, balked slightly at the prospect of being stuck for any amount of time in a dungeon with only his two closest friends and a Red Guard for company. The fact that he was chained to a wall, had a horrendous headache, and was covered in scratches and bruises was only a bonus.

Instinctively, he allowed his analytical gaze to travel over the still-unconscious forms of his two friends, searching for any injuries that may require his attention. Thankfully, they appeared relatively unharmed, apart from each sporting a nasty head wound that he strongly suspected he had sustained as well. There were bruises and scratches on both of them, of course, but nothing terribly serious.

Last of all, he glanced at the Red Guard, intending to perform merely a cursory examination. Instead, his gaze lingered, the marksman momentarily shocked.

He hadn’t seen it before, the Red Guard’s helmet concealing the fact, but now that he was without his helmet Aramis could see just how _young_ the man looked. For heaven’s sake, he couldn’t be older than twenty at the most. He was barely an adult and had no business being a soldier.

Suddenly concerned, Aramis began to check the young man more thoroughly for injuries. Long-time feud notwithstanding, he would not be responsible for the death of a _kid_ simply because he’d been negligent, Red Guard or no.

His examination was not for nothing. Whoever had been gracious enough to leave the Inseparables relatively unharmed had unfortunately not allowed the young man the same courtesy. The kid’s bruises were far more severe than those of his three cellmates, and he had somehow received a nasty wound to his left thigh that bled sluggishly yet persistently. Judging by the queer pallor of his tanned skin, the young man had been bleeding for quite some time.

_Dammit._

He needed to bind the injury, and fast, or else the kid would die.

The medic rapidly slid out of his doublet, his movements only slightly hampered by the manacles, and swiftly removed his linen shirt before wrapping the leather doublet back around himself. With a few brisk movements, he ripped the shirt into several long strips to form makeshift bandages.

Hardly the most sanitary, but it would have to do, he supposed.

The problem of procuring bandages now solved, he found himself tasked with the difficulty of binding the injury. The young man was chained to another wall in the opposite corner of the room, and Aramis would not be able to reach him. Nor would either of his two friends if they were awake.

Which meant that the kid would have to bandage his injury himself, and he would have to be awake for that.

Decision reached, Aramis attempted to wake the man. “Boy!”

No answer. Aramis bit his lip and tried again. “Boy, wake up!”

Nothing. Athos stirred a little, his forehead creasing slightly, but the young man didn’t move an inch. He’d have to try something else.

An idea coming to mind, Aramis picked up a nearby pebble before flicking it at the kid. It flew through the air and bounced off the man’s forehead, eliciting no response. Aramis tried once, twice, three times without any reaction, and began to quietly despair.

Then, on the fourth stone, the kid winced.

A fifth, and he stirred. A sixth, and he shuddered. A seventh, an eighth, a ninth, and at last brown eyes began to flicker open.

The young man slowly looked around himself, his gaze filled with confusion, bewilderment, and hints of annoyance and pain. Aramis waited until he was looking at him before speaking, his voice stern. “You’re badly hurt.”

The man blinked dazedly for a few moments before apparently coming to a realization. “...Were you throwing _stones_ at me?”

“...Maybe.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re hurt and you need to wrap your wound before you bleed to death. These,” Aramis held up the torn remains of his shirt, “should suit the purpose just fine.”

He chucked them at the man, the bandages colliding with the kid’s chest and tumbling into his lap. The man stared at them for a long moment.

“...Was this a _shirt?_ ”

“Quite the observant one, aren’t you.”

The man blinked, looking somewhat like a confused puppy. “...Clairemont was right, you musketeers _are_ crazy.”

“I resent that comment. Now, wrap that cloth around your leg before it’s too late.”

The man languidly began to do as Aramis asked, his movements sloppy and uncoordinated, doubtlessly as a result of his extensive blood loss, and Aramis found himself itching to rip the fabric from his incompetent fingers and bandage the wound _properly_. Unfortunately, however, that wasn’t exactly an option, and he was forced to watch as the man messily wound the torn remains of the shirt around his leg.

Indisposed as he was, however, the man did as well as could be expected of him under the circumstances. At least the gash wasn’t leaking blood quite so heavily anymore.

Aramis glanced towards his brothers, noticing to his displeasure that they were still unconscious despite the racket that he and the man had been making. It was really quite worrisome, they should have woken up by now--

“Um…”

Aramis turned his gaze on the man. “Yes?”

The kid seemed to ponder a little. “...Why did you help me?”

“What, no ‘thank you’?” Aramis shot back flippantly. A part of his mind wondered why he was bantering so easily with a _Red Guard,_ but he ignored it. “But, to answer your question, I don’t enjoy watching people die in front of me when I can do something about it.”

The man frowned. “But helping me doesn’t benefit you in any way,” he pointed out. “To you, it’s a waste of bandages. Bandages which you could otherwise use to help your brothers.”

Aramis gritted his teeth. “My brothers aren’t in danger of _dying,_ boy. And I’m sure a Red Guard would have difficulty understanding such a concept, but I happen to want to help people, not let them die alone in prison cells.”

The man flinched, then frowned. “I...don’t understand. You’re helping an enemy. Someone who presumably wouldn’t mind seeing you dead and buried. Why?”

Aramis shrugged. “Because, I’m a musketeer. It’s what we do.”

“I thought you only helped each other. Not Red Guards that you hate.”

“Well, looks like you learned something new today.”

The man tried to glare at Aramis, and the marksman grinned. The kid was too tired to muster an actual glare and was resorting to narrowing his eyes, and it was honestly rather adorable. He looked like a puppy that was trying and failing to be intimidating.

“...Stop laughing at me.”

Aramis’ grin immediately vanished. The kid sounded honestly _hurt. _“Is something wrong, boy?”__

__The man flinched again. “Don’t call me that. Please.”_ _

__The medic stared. “Alright, I won’t. But may I ask why?”_ _

__The man seemed to be debating answering. Eventually, he sighed and slumped tiredly. “The other Red Guards call me that, because I’m young. I hate it.”_ _

__“...I see,” a question came to mind, “speaking of which, how _did_ you become a Red Guard so young?”_ _

__The kid shrugged before yawning, exhaustion and blood loss finally catching up to him. “It wasn’t easy. I had to prove myself to them before they let me in.”_ _

__“Prove yourself?”_ _

__He nodded, slowly slumping to the ground. “...Yes. Had to...to duel three of them. At the same time.”_ _

__“And?”_ _

__He grinned, a vicious, feral expression. “Killed two, badly injured the third.”_ _

__Aramis raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.”_ _

__“They seemed to think so too. Let me in. Still treat me like a kid, though, I don’t like it.”_ _

__The marksman nodded. “I can see why.”_ _

__The man made an affirmative sort of noise, his eyes slipping closed as he began to fall asleep. Just before the darkness claimed him, he seemed to remember something. “...By the way, what’s your name?”_ _

__“Aramis. And you?”_ _

__“...D’Artagnan.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. So. I was actually able to continue this. I wasn't sure I could do it, because my muse was being a prat, but I did it. 
> 
> Go me.
> 
> So...I'm not sure how well I did? I mean, I tried, but...damaged!d'Art is just difficult to write in general, because he keeps switching between overly guarded and remarkably open/childlike. So far I'm trying to keep the childlike portions for when he's weak/vulnerable, but I'm not sure how well I'm doing or even if he'd ever act childlike. I'm not exactly a psychologist.
> 
> I...may have bitten off slightly more than I can chew. Maybe.
> 
> But I'll try anyways, because I like this AU. So there.
> 
> Also Aramis is awesome.
> 
> Constructive criticism welcome.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, I changed the summary and some of the tags to fit the story better. Nothing else was changed.
> 
> Also, as a disclaimer: I am not a writer, a psychologist, a historian, or a doctor. So. There's that.

D'Artagnan was always remarkably resilient against pain and injury, the ability honed by Marcel's years of 'training'. As such it wasn't long before he woke up again, this time far more clear-headed. He pretended to still be unconscious, a habit he'd adopted over the years, and began trying to figure out what the hell had happened to him.

The first thing he noticed, as usual, was the pain. A throbbing pain at the back of his head, a sharp one in his left thigh, the same multitude of aches and pains that had constantly plagued him for months (a reminder of his years of suffering at Marcel's hands, a brand he would probably never erase). Methodically, he sorted through them, pushing them one by one into a small compartment at the back of his mind, hiding them away so he could ignore them. It was a technique he'd mastered a long time ago, and one that had served him well in the past and continued to do so now.

This task complete, he endeavored to piece together his memories, trying to figure out what happened to him and where he stood. He remembered a group of three Musketeers and three Red Guards traveling together, himself among them...they were escorting a nobleman in need of protection...they were attacked...he'd been hit in the head...then what?

He was vaguely aware of having awoken before, his mind churning with foggy memories of being in pain, with his head swimming and panic seeping into his bones. He remembered a warm, calm voice breaking past whatever feeble barriers of sarcasm and aloofness he'd instinctively put up, drawing words from him as if he were picking apples from a tree. He recollected telling someone-Aramis, wasn't that his name?- too much, far too much, and in that moment he dearly wanted to hit his head against the floor.

What had he been _thinking?_ He'd told a Musketeer, an _enemy,_ about his...unstable relations with the other Red Guards, a weakness that the Musketeer could exploit. He'd given Aramis information about his skill in battle, instead of allowing the Musketeer to underestimate him and thus give him an advantage. For goodness' sake, he'd even told Aramis his _name._ And then fallen unconscious in front of him, allowing himself to be vulnerable, because he was apparently stupid and actively wanted to die.

He was such an idiot. If Marcel were here, the man would kill him for this, and it would be fully justified.

Marcel wasn't here now, however, which meant that d'Artagnan was still going to live, which meant that he could do nothing except deal with his mistakes and try to minimize the fall-out. For that, however, he needed to get out of this cell first, something he wouldn't be able to do without the cooperation of his three cell-mates.

Thus resolved, the Gascon opened his eyes and sat up with a groan, ready to face the world again.

~=~

The three were all awake and staring intently at him, evidently sizing him up. A weaker man would have shifted nervously at the scrutiny, but d'Artagnan merely faced it with the directness he used for such occasions. "Hello."

The green-eyed man-d'Artagnan did not know his name-raised an eyebrow and said nothing. The larger man-d'Artagnan didn't know _his name either_ -frowned and also said nothing. Only Aramis bothered to address his greeting, the man beaming as he spoke. "Welcome back to the land of the living, d'Artagnan. How are you feeling?"

D'Artagnan considered the question, wondering what would be safe to say. The general rule was that he was supposed to conceal his injuries as much as possible, but a part of him balked at the prospect of lying so blatantly to Aramis. A small, sentimental, kicked-puppy part of him that yearned for any form of acceptance or affection.

Sternly stamping down that kicked-puppy part of him, d'Artagnan allowed his expression to close off, even as he plastered a bland, fake smile on his features. "I'm fine."

For some reason, Aramis' countenance immediately darkened. D'Artagnan didn't have time to ponder this before the green-eyed man spoke, his gaze trained on d'Artagnan's red-and-black uniform. "You're a Red Guard."

"...Yes? And?"

"I remember you," the green-eyed man said decisively. He met d'Artagnan's gaze, and the younger man suddenly felt like those eyes were boring into him, picking apart his soul to see what it was made of. It was very unnerving. "You fought off our attackers quite well. Killed three of them, if I'm not mistaken."

That was the truth. But d'Artagnan always downplayed his achievements in battle, always made it seem like he was weaker and less skilled than he actually was. It was a habit born of caution and fear, and one that served him well in the past.

After all, if people thought you were merely average, they never bothered to really keep their guard up.

On the other hand, a Red Guard would take any opportunity to boast, and minimizing his skills would probably seem suspect. Besides, Aramis already had some idea as to his abilities (damn his concussion). It was too late for denial.

Which left him with only one option: deflection.

Sparing only a slight nod for the green-eyed man's observation, d'Artagnan turned to Aramis and swiftly attempted to redirect the conversation. "Any ideas as to how we get out of this place?"

To his surprise, the larger man butted in before Aramis could respond. He was darker-skinned, tall, and had an accent that reminded d'Artagnan of the people who lived in the Parisian slums, in the Court of Miracles. "Not yet, no. Chains are too well attached to the walls and I don't have anything to pick the locks with."

He was almost certainly a Court man. It made d'Artagnan feel a sort of kinship with the man, he himself having spent some time in the Court when he was hard-up, and the Gascon was hard-pressed to shove away the treacherous emotions.

"Hm, I see," d'Artagnan gingerly tested his bonds, the movement serving the dual purpose of keeping his mind off of his emotions and confirming to himself that the larger man was correct. "So, why did our captors bring us here instead of leaving us dead in a ditch?"

"Bit morbid, aren't you?" When d'Artagnan made no reply, Aramis continued with a shrug. "We don't really know yet. Could be ransom, could be that they want information from us. Personally, my bet's on ransom."

D'Artagnan's heart sank slightly even as he nodded, his mind churning with thoughts and his face carefully blank. The Red Guards would never pay the ransom, and wouldn't willingly stick their necks out for him in order to stage a rescue. If it had been a question of information, than they would be more invested in bringing him back before he revealed any secrets, but a ransom? Never. He'd have to find a way out on his own.

Glancing around the room, what he saw made his heart sink even further. The chains were both short and secure and would be difficult to pick. As far as potential exits were concerned, the only window was small and barred, leaving a heavy wooden door that he'd bet two month's pay was locked and bolted. To make matters worse, each of the room's four occupants was chained in a separate corner of the room, with the green-eyed man on his left, the larger man on his right, and Aramis across from him. No two of them were close enough together to provide any sort of aid to each other.

Their captors, whoever they were, were far from stupid, and that fact was currently working to his detriment.

"...Right," he said, burying his apprehension underneath an emotionless facade. He was fine, he could figure a way out of this mess. No need for panicking just yet.

_Not dead yet, not dead yet, not dead yet…_

Of course, the door chose that exact moment to begin creaking open.

Just his luck, apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, d'Art is more lucid now, and we get to see more about how his head works.
> 
> ...I'm going to be honest and say that originally, damaged!d'Art was supposed to be...a bit different. He was supposed to be all brooding and dramatic and ignoring his emotions and hiding his pain and stuff. Later on, he was supposed to be all how-do-emotions-work-why-do-I-feel-things-what-even-is-this-am-I-malfunctioning.
> 
> But then, because he's d'Art, he started doing his own thing entirely. So now we have analyzing!d'Art, manipulative!d'Art, ridiculously-careful!d'Art, eternally-suspicious!d'Art, and a load of other d'Arts, all mixed with a kicked-puppy part of himself that he keeps trying to ignore. And, of course, he's anything but dramatic.
> 
> ...I don't even. What am I doing anymore. I have no clue.
> 
> Next chapter will feature the Captors, Aramis still being awesome, and d'Artagnan un-dramatically repressing his puppy alter-ego. Why.
> 
> Constructive criticism welcome.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, a small note on how this story fits into the show's timeline (because I keep forgetting to address this, dammit):
> 
> Short answer: it doesn't. It really, really doesn't.
> 
> See, at first, I did try to fit it into the timeline of the show. But there's just too much changed and I can't figure out how to patch it all together, and moreover I don't want to. I want to be free to do my own thing entirely, canon be damned.
> 
> So I'm going with the excuse that events in ANW are set a couple of years before the show starts. Just...just roll with it. Please.

The door swung open further, admitting a shifty-looking man who shuffled nervously into the room. He was clearly wary, one hand clutching a knife, the man careful to leave the door open behind himself so he’d have an escape route.

He reminded one of a rat, d’Artagnan noted absently. One of the rats that typically scurried around the Court and periodically wandered into the wreck the Gascon called a home. The man had the same intent look, like he was watching anything and everything, and his movements were sneaky and quick like a rat’s. He had the same demeanor to him that rats had, as if he were clever and crafty and knew so all too well.

He looked harmless, to be honest. But d’Artagnan could see proof to the contrary in his stance, in the way he held the knife. This man may not look particularly threatening, but he knew how to use a knife, and he was desperate enough to do considerable damage with it if the situation required it.

Automatically, the Gascon surreptitiously felt inside his left sleeve, feeling a small amount of relief when his fingers found his dagger. The familiar weight of his sword and pistols was distressingly absent, but at least he wasn’t entirely unarmed. If push came to shove, he wouldn’t be completely helpless.

The rat-man scurried towards them, holding the knife up as if it could serve as a barrier between himself and four soldiers who were trained to kill. He looked at them speculatively for a moment before speaking, his voice strangely soft and calm. “So, what do we have here?”

Without waiting for an answer, he crept towards the green-eyed man’s corner, carefully keeping an eye on the three other prisoners as he did so. His gaze traveled over the chained man, and he frowned slightly when he recognized the iconic leather pauldron. “...You’re a musketeer.”

He clearly wasn’t expecting any kind of acknowledgement of his statement, seeing as he immediately scuttled over to Aramis, than to the larger man, his frown deepening as he noticed the pauldrons. It wasn’t a disappointed or angry sort of frown, however, but more of a contemplative one, as if he were mulling over how to turn the situation to his advantage.

When he turned to d’Artagnan, however...that was when his expression darkened somewhat. D’Artagnan shrank away ever so slightly as the rat-man spoke, his voice losing some of its tranquility. “And a Red Guard.”

Wondering what had caused such a reaction, d'Artagnan spoke, keeping his voice as level and emotionless as possible. “Is that a problem?” 

The rat-man eyed him thoughtfully for a moment, seemingly at a loss. “Not a problem, no...Merely means that you’re useless to me, boy.”

D’Artagnan automatically flinched at the degrading moniker, than flinched again when he realized that he was being entirely too expressive. The concussion and blood loss were fraying his poised demeanor, allowing him to appear weaker, more human, than he would have liked. Marcel would be _furious_ if he could see him now.

“Don’t call him that,” Aramis abruptly snapped, glaring daggers at the rat-man, probably remembering d’Artagnan’s dislike of the sobriquet. Strange. First Aramis saved his life, and now the musketeer was actively defending him. _Him,_ a Red Guard he barely knew. D’Artagnan couldn’t make head or tail of it all.

The green-eyed man evidently disapproved of Aramis’ reaction, giving him a reproving look that reminded d’Artagnan unpleasantly of Marcel. 

...In fact, now that he thought about it, quite a few things about the green-eyed man reminded him of Marcel. His demeanor, for one: this was clearly a man who prioritized reason over emotion, and took great pride in doing so. D’Artagnan had only ever seen one other man with the same guarded, emotionless stare, and that man was Marcel himself.

It also didn’t help that, as far as he could remember, Marcel’s eyes were almost the exact same shade of greenish-blue.

The green-eyed man spared the rat-man a calculating glance, as if assessing how best to proceed. It reminded d’Artagnan so much of the look Marcel had, of the one he himself would find in his own brown eyes on the rare occasions when he looked in a mirror.

In that moment, he decided that he didn’t like the green-eyed man. The musketeer was clever and dispassionate, a dangerous combination. D’Artagnan would do well to be careful when in his presence.

He was drawn out of his ruminations when the green-eyed man spoke, voice level and controlled, just like Marcel’s always was. “What do you mean, ‘useless’?”

He was trying to figure out the rat-man’s motives, d’Artagnan realized. Finding out why d’Artagnan was ‘useless’ could provide valuable clues as to why the four had been kidnapped in the first place. A simple yet effective plan, and one which Marcel would have approved of.

Somehow, it made him dislike the green-eyed man more.

The rat-man raised an eyebrow before replying, voice still soft. “The original plan was to kidnap the duke you were escorting, and ransom him.”

That made sense.

“Unfortunately, my men were unable to get past your defenses. By the time we fought you off, the duke had already fled. You four were the only ones remaining on the field after the fight. So, we decided to ransom you instead.”

D’Artagnan was beginning to see where this was going, and he didn’t particularly like it.

“The brotherhood shared by the musketeers is legendary, and I doubt I will have much trouble collecting the ransom money from your brothers-in-arms…”

Of course not.

“...A Red Guard, however, is another matter. The Red Guards share no such brotherhood. To get a ransom from them would be impossible. They would infinitely prefer to leave the boy to rot.”

Which made d’Artagnan ‘useless’. Which meant that rat-man had no reason to keep him around. Which meant that said rat-man was probably going to kill him.

“What are you going to do, then?” he asked, although he already had an inkling. His eyes flitted involuntarily to the very sharp knife the rat-man was still holding.

“Normally, I’d kill you. I gain nothing by keeping you around,” said the rat-man, still in a calm voice, as if killing was an everyday occurence to him.

Out of the corner of his eye, d’Artagnan thought he saw Aramis stiffen abruptly.

“However,” continued the rat-man. “Your situation is somewhat different.”

“How so?”

The rat-man eyed him appraisingly. “You are very skilled in combat, boy. You took out several of my best men. And I could always use an extra man in my team, especially one with a skill-set such as yours.”

D’Artagnan was good at reading between the lines, and as such he could see what the man was really saying. _Join me, and I won’t kill you._

...It shouldn’t be so difficult to choose. 

After all, he’d been taught to always prioritize survival. Marcel had drilled it into his head that nothing was more important than preserving his own life, no matter the cost. The first choice should therefore be the obvious one.

A part of him, however, chafed at the prospect of siding with a criminal. It was that same kicked-puppy, emotional, highly irrational part of himself which he constantly struggled to subdue, and which he had learned to despise. It urged him to do something, _anything_ rather than ally himself with this man.

It was ridiculous. Aiding the rat-man was the most reasonable, logical choice. Personal prejudices did not change the fact that currently, d’Artagnan didn’t have any other options than to join him. Refusal would end in death, and to try to fight the rat-man would be nothing less than foolhardy, chained to the wall as he was. Injured and with reduced mobility, he had almost no chance of surviving a fight.

The kicked-puppy part of himself had never listened to reason, however, and it still fretted at the thought of helping the rat-man. No matter how he tried to convince himself otherwise, there was still a small, niggling thought at the back of his mind that insisted that there must be another way--

He paused, breath catching in his throat.

There _was_ another way. One that was reasonably safe and that had substantial chances of success. One that wouldn’t kill him, but also wouldn’t end with him becoming one of the rat-man’s goons.

He’d have to be careful, however. If the rat-man got any indication that something was wrong…

Carefully, he schooled his expression into something approaching indifference, eyes training on the rat-man’s knife, cold and considering. Keeping his voice steady and controlled, he replied. “Very well. I’ll join you.”

There was a choked sound from Aramis’ corner. The rat-man grinned, removed a set of keys from his pocket, and bent down to release d’Artagnan from his chains.

D'Artagnan waited, and braced himself for a spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan has a plan, it seems. Also, good news: these chapters _are_ getting easier to write. I'm finally getting the hang of how to handle damaged!d'Art. Yay.
> 
> Bad news: I keep neglecting Porthos for some reason. Bad authoress. But next chapter should be from his POV (if the muses are willing) so that should help make up for it.
> 
> Next chapter will feature d'Artagnan's master plan, more of Aramis being awesome, Porthos finally saying more than a single sentence (I'm sorry okay, my muses are stupid), and d'Artagnan angsting again about how Athos reminds him of Marcel. 
> 
> Constructive criticism welcome.


End file.
